The Thunder Storm
by Catherine Spark
Summary: A severe thunder storm washes an unexpected visitor in through the doors of 221B Baker Street one night.


"I suppose we shall have to…_**good heavens**_!"

A gigantic clap of thunder had rung out, so loud that even Holmes, the man of iron, twitched in his chair. I put down my paper and went over to the window, pulling back the curtain.

The street was ominously grey and overcast, and the clouds were heavy and waterlogged. After a summer of almost insufferable heat and drought, the weather was finally breaking. Another ear-splitting clap of thunder rang out, and the window actually rattled. At the same time there was a blinding flash of electric blue. Holmes leapt up and drew the curtain with a decisive sweep. Then the heavens opened. The downpour was so torrential that it battered the window with a noise loud enough almost to disturb a conversation. I pitied the poor souls caught outside in that terrific deluge. Holmes crouched down, stirred up the fire, sat back in the chair, leaned his head back and shut his eyes. "Imagine, Watson," he mused. "When this storm has passed and the clouds have gone there will be no tracks, no bloodstains, no traces of crime or violence. It will be like a clean slate for London and for us. Starting afresh." He picked up his violin and began playing a soothing tune when another clap of thunder rang out, resulting in an ugly squeak. Holmes sighed and dropped the violin and bow onto the floor and drummed his fingers impatiently, glancing around the room for a distraction.

Suddenly however, I saw that glitter of intense interest and concentration in his eyes, his face became rigid and his frame tensed.

"You hear that Watson?"

"What, Holmes?"

He held up a finger and I fell quiet, and then I heard it. A faint wailing that rose and fell on the storm. Holmes crossed the room and pulled back the curtain, glancing eagerly out onto the street, and then his gaze fixed. He motioned to me to come and look, then pointed down to the pavement directly below us. A tiny, bedraggled human figure was standing there, head bent, hands over ears, wailing.

"Why doesn't he go home?" Holmes mused, eyebrows drawn down in puzzlement.

"Perhaps he has none.".

Holmes contemplated, an uneasy expression on his face. "Conscience can be pricked by the smallest of things, Watson," he said, thoughtfully.

"Well I for one can't leave him standing there in the rain. He'll die of pneumonia." He nodded and I made my way downstairs.

Mrs Hudson had family business to attend to, and this was consequently the one night she was away. Such is often the way of things with luck. I threw open the front door. The child looked up as the light from the hall fell across his path. "Come on then," I muttered, picking him up and closing the door behind me.

Holmes looked up as I entered the living room carrying the child. I was pleased to see that he had gathered some blankets and cleared the settee, which had been littered with papers. Holmes scrutinised the child as he would scrutinise a new client or a piece of evidence. The boy could not have been more than six or seven years old, with blue eyes, pale skin and black hair slicked down by the rain. He eyed Holmes curiously and did not pull away when Holmes laid his hand on his shoulder, smiled and spoke softly. "What is your name then?"

"Michael Phelps."

"And why were you outside in such weather?"

"My Da put me out for the night for dropping the water jug." My medical instincts surfaced and Holmes and I simultaneously swept a glance over him for bruises. I could see Holmes's jaw set in anger on behalf of this poor little waif.

"Well you can't stay in those wet things – run a bath Watson, would you?" and without waiting for a reply, he pulled the blanket more tightly around Michael for modesty and began helping him peel off his wet things.

I helped Michael bath, because as a doctor if there were any signs that the boy had been abused I would be able to treat him. As he warmed up he became more talkative. No, he didn't want to talk about his Da, but his Ma was very pretty and lovely. She always wore brown dresses and she liked cooking but not cleaning. He had a dog but they had to sell it because they were poor and could not feed it. No he didn't go to school but he had taught himself numbers and words from signs. No, he didn't like scrubbing brushes thank you. I couldn't say that I blamed him.

Some minutes later Michael was dressed in a ridiculously long nightgown, which trailed around his feet, tripping him up often and causing much hilarity. Michael became very interested in the photographs of the criminals brought to justice by my friend, and while he looked, Holmes gestured for me to come over. "What do children eat?"

I stifled a smile. "The same as us, I think. In school they get milk and biscuits."

He looked at me triumphantly. "We have that!" With that he turned on his heal and returned with a cup of milk and a biscuit on a plate, which he put in front of Michael.

Having refreshed the boy we seated him on the sofa and tried to work out what to do with him. He looked from Holmes to me and back, smiling, expectant. Holmes leaned forward. "Close your eyes, Michael." Michael did so. "And don't peek!" Very quietly Holmes got up, picked up one of his boots and sat down beside him. "Open them again." He handed the boot to him. "You see this boot?" Michael nodded. "Can you tell me anything about the wearer?" Michael's face clouded with concentration. Holding the boot he stood up and his keen eyes swept around the room. Holmes watched with half closed eyes. Suddenly Michael gave a cry of triumph and, holding the nightgown up from his feet with one hand, darted and retrieved one of _my_ boots.

Holmes sat up, acutely interested now. "Mark that Watson – he does not pick up the pair but another boot. That is a very good sign." Michael compared both boots, and then sat on the floor, put them down and took Holmes's foot in one hand and mine in the other. "Well," he said hesitantly, "That foot is narrower," he nodded at Holmes's foot, "And that shoe is narrower," he picked up Holmes's shoe, "And they are both man shoes," he cocked his head, listening intently, "And there are no other people in this house," he pointed triumphantly at Sherlock Holmes, "So it is _your _boot!" He handed the boot over. Holmes took it and shook Michael by the hand.

"Well done indeed, Michael!" He laid a hand on Michael's shoulder. "Now, you are young and inexperienced, so pray do not take my criticism personally. I can see that you are very intelligent and that you show exceptional ability for your age." Michael beamed. "There is just one point I want to make. Since there are only two of us in the house and Watson here carried you in, giving you a chance to see for yourself that there were only the two of us here, had you observed his shoes at the door you could have deduced that they were my shoes in an instant."

"Sorry." Michael looked down.

"No, no – no sorry required!" Holmes eyes blazed with excitement. He leaned forward again and stared into Michael's eyes. I noticed that Michael was looking somewhat unnerved. He threw a tiny glance at me and I gave him a small smile. He relaxed.

"Michael, would you like to know what it is I do?" Michael nodded. "I'm a detective. Do you know what that is? I find bad people and catch them so they can't hurt anyone. Does that sound exciting to you?"

"It sounds wonderful!"

"Well Michael," Holmes said, in a conspiratorial voice, "You would make an excellent detective, I think. You just need training up."

"I'd like that, I think. Can you teach me?"

A slow and delighted smile spread across Holmes's face. "Michael, I think I actually can teach you. You see, I have some friends that I call the Baker Street Irregulars – children like you who have never gone to real school but who, like you, have brilliant potential. They help me solve crimes by finding evidence." Holmes's eyes sparkled. "Might you like to join them?"

Michael shifted uncomfortably and looked at his lap. "It's alright," Holmes said smiling, "I won't let you come to trouble, and the other boys will teach you what they've learnt so far."

"But can I stay at home?" The question was mumbled, not meeting Holmes's eye.

Holmes's face softened and he chuckled. "Of course you can! I may not need you for weeks on end or I may need you at a moment's notice for days at a time. Will that be alright for you?"

"Yes, fine. I can go where I want."

"Holmes?" I broke in on the intense conversation. "Ten O'clock is rather late for someone like Michael to be awake, and the rain is still pouring down."

Holmes stood up. "Hmm. So it is. He had better stay here tonight and sleep on the settee. No Watson," for I had been about to protest and offer the boy my own bed. Then, lowering his voice to me, sadly: "He has already very likely had better treatment than he will ever again experience. Any more would be unkind." I paused and nodded in sad understanding and agreement of what he said.

"Well, Detective Michael," said Holmes, masterfully, "Do you lie there on the settee…that's right…and Doctor Watson will sort out pillows and blankets, and now, just you listen to this." He took his violin from the table. "It worked with Doctor Watson at least." He began to play a gentle, low, fluttering improvisation that both lulled and stirred the heart in turns. In the firelight I watched emotions flit across his aquiline face in accordance with the music – a beautiful, dreamy reverie. When he had finished it seemed that Michael had drifted off to sleep. "And I think it is time we did the same, Watson."

-/-/-/-/-/-

I awoke at eight and, remembering the strange happenings of the previous evening, dressed quickly and went through to the living room. Holmes was standing by the fireplace grinning at a piece of paper in his hand. I noticed spots of ink on the floor under the mantle piece, a pen resting on the arm of one chair, and papers strewn across the table.

"Where is Michael?"

"Gone, my dear Watson, out of there." He gestured to the open window. I leaned out and saw foot marks on the drain. "It must have been at the crack of dawn. He left this". Smiling, Holmes held it up. There was a crude picture of two boots – one narrow and one wide, and a brief message: "Thak yo fo mi visit an fo teshin mi deteshun."

"Most touching," he said, and I was surprised to see a look in Holmes's eyes that was not entirely dissimilar to affection.

"Well well, I trust we will see him again some time soon," I said, laughing.

"I trust so," said Holmes, chuckling and fixing the picture discreetly onto the mantelpiece with the jackknife.

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-

THE END

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End file.
